


love addicts

by redlight



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Breathplay, Dom/sub, F/M, Jealousy, Lawyers, M/M, Masochism, Multi, Office Sex, Pining, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn With Plot, fwb allurance, pining lance, pining shallura, pining shance, shallurance hell, tags to be updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-06 17:36:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14061954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlight/pseuds/redlight
Summary: Allura is a successful lawyer, and Lance is her valued secretary.It's such a goddamned cliché – except, that's fine, because they're cliché but theyknowhow to do it. They both know about the conference room kisses, they both know about the bitemarks under Allura’s blouse, they both know about the bruises on Lance’s hips. It’s familiar.And then there's Shiro. Who isnotfamiliar.





	love addicts

**Author's Note:**

> _screams_ ive been workng on this SO LONG, HOLY SHIT, WHY AM I SO SLOW
> 
>  
> 
> [the playlist for this fic if yall want lol](https://open.spotify.com/user/candyvampires/playlist/0xQmE7HkrNny02TQSog7PO?si=KaN-Imq8SLyXttuSvegr0Q)
> 
>  
> 
> title is inspired by [poplar st. by glass animals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H74z1xOzZcM). ok this entire fic is inspired by it, but listen,
> 
> i just REALLY wanted these three to fuck while wearing suits, and then all this side plot shit happened? yep
> 
> anyway have fun i hope ill update soon

✿

**1\. candy store conman**

Lance has been _craving_ that pink lipstick in his teeth for a long, long time. So, he really can't help but grin when he _finally_ gets to run his tongue across the pink sludge smeared on his bottom lip.

He’s still pinned down, sitting up on the rough wooden desk—uncomfortable and unyielding underneath his ass, but Allura’s still straddling his hips, too. Pretty breasts still heaving behind her disheveled white button-up, sexy round thighs pressed so close to his. Her knees pressed hard against the desk surface, with her skirt hiked high enough to reveal the tiny fingerprint-bruises Lance left all over her.

The desk creaks under their combined mass, and Lance breathes out a tiny burst of laughter ‘cause _god, this is all so, **so** worth it_.

It's worth _everything—_ it's worth having to keep quiet in Allura’s office, in the conference rooms when it’s past office hours. When the big bad Queen of Altea Law stays past closing time under the guise of _working_ , just to rake her manicured nails down Lance’s back, just to wrap her hand around her disaster of a secretary’s throat and make him come apart so bad that he can't stop _shaking_ after. It's worth the horrible cliché, and the disregard for the sanctity of their workplace, and it's definitely-definitely- _definitely_ worth the way Lance gets fucked up.

If he's honest, though, he _likes_ getting fucked up.

So Lance leans back, tries to get his lungs to expand and collapse once more.

They both have to take a minute—Lance breathing shallowly, like there's rainwater rising up his lungs and flooding him up with something _rapid, warm, ever-falling_ , something that makes his heart flutter when faced with Allura’s pretty laughter, something that makes his pulse _fly._

Allura, though—she inhales deeply and harshly, like she's trying to make up for severe, life-threatening oxygen deprivation, with no special medical equipment save for her own messy, kiss-swollen lips.

Then Allura lets out a cute little huff, tired and hot as she finally clambers down from Lance’s lap. She adjusts her skirt with prim, shaky fingers, and she takes one last shivery breath to compose herself. Her pretty, bubblegum-pink lipstick’s rubbed off and smeared across her mouth and _his_ mouth—it's pleasant, the feel of colored grease painted sloppily onto his lips, stuck delightfully in the spaces between his teeth.

Allura stumbles when her feet touch the floor, as she climbs down from the desk—but she steadies herself quickly, firm hands clasping at Lance’s thighs and wrinkling the fabric of his slacks even _more_. It's okay, though; Lance’s neck and shoulders sting with manicured-nail scratches and brutal maroon teeth-marks, and his baby blue dress shirt is untucked and bunched up at his hips and forearms, and his hair is ruffled and distressed from slim feminine fingers pulling through it. Lance is _used_ to looking like a mess, though—Allura’s the real star of the show, here.

Pretty flowing strands unraveling from her ponytail, masses of candy-floss hair tumbling around her face and down her still-flushed neck. Allura’s cheeks are splotched with a rosy-brown flush, like fragile pink peonies are blooming and blossoming under her thin dark skin. Droplets of sweat trail down her soft, fragile neck. She shuffles uncomfortably, wobbly in her white high heels, but she still presses herself snugly between Lance’s legs, so that his thighs press tight ‘round her wide hips.

So Lance smacks his lips together, like he's just a kid who’s got his hands on a _particularly_ satisfying lollipop flavor. And he gives Allura a _grin_ , a boyish, _“just successfully stole toffee from the candy shop and sold it to the other kids on the playground at a dramatically increased cost”_ grin, with what must be shimmering, glimmering, pink-smeared teeth.

Lance hooks his ankles at the small of her back, pulls her closer still. See, _distance_ from Allura leaves a wretched taste in his mouth, the total opposite of sweetness. Distance from her makes the bottom of his stomach _itch_ and _roll_ like it's sick from too much candy—but, the problem is, Lance always craves _more_. More of that sugary lipstick in his mouth, more of that fairy-floss hair tangled in his grip, more of that precious candy-blue gaze focused on _him_. He needs that warm skin pressed against his, he _requires_ the lovely, sweet floral fragrance that sticks to her hair and clothes and he’ll breathe it all in until he _asphyxiates_.

It's like this; Lance wasn't really meant to be an oxygen-breather, and he only handles the corrosive element out of necessity—‘cause, _fuck_ , he _should've_ been built to breathe Allura’s too-damn-sweet perfume.

It's like this; without _her_ , Lance’s skin is always a little too cold, and his circulation is always a little too sketchy, and his respiration is always a little _off_.

It's like _this_ ; Lance is constantly yearning, constantly _starving_ for the chance to press his thumbs into Allura’s fleshy thighs and spread her open and _eat her alive_.

But Allura just rolls her eyes—still a little wide, dilated, shiny with the barest hint of tears. She says, with her voice raspy in the _prettiest_ way, “You didn't leave any marks this time.”

She thumbs at the lovely expanse of her own unmarred throat, trailing her sharp, gleaming dark blue nails down her skin to press into her collarbones. Her skin’s clear, smooth but empty, but she said _no biting_ and—and who is Lance as the _best damn secretary in this filthy town_ if he can't follow those simple directions?

Allura’s eyebrows are furrowed cutely, an adorable little crease, and maybe Lance _could_ smooth it out with a gentle kiss to the forehead—

But he doesn't. It's not worth the fallout.

So Lance shrugs, leans back, and pops up his shirt collar to hide her own marks of ownership.

( _—hot, dark, heavy breath against his throat, lipstick stains interspersed with sharp teeth pressing into his flesh. She palms at him through his slacks, he presses his fingertips harsh against her hips and grinds her down onto his lap—_ )

“So,” Lance purrs. “That was good?”

“No marks,” Allura repeats, eyes darkening just a bit. “You were _so good_ today, Lance.”

(— _hot, rasping words against his ear, “you're such a good boy for me, always following directions, oh, Lance, you're not so close already, are you?”_ _as long nails scrape up the small of his back—_ )

And that—that makes his pulse flutter insistently, _rapidly_ , resounding in his neck, within his temples, inside his wrists, caught screaming in the space between his lungs.

“Yeah?” Lance tries, though his voice is weak and low and desperate. “I was—I was good?”

“Mhmm,” Allura hums. Skims her sharp nails under his shirt, up his sides, makes him shiver. Looks up through dark eyelashes that could go on _forever_ , purses her bubblegum lips.

(— _the_ _gasps wrenched from her pretty mouth are louder than the creaking of the desk, and he digs his nails into her smooth inner thighs—‘til he’s sliding his fingers dangerously high up her skin and Allura_ squeaks _and pulls_ hard _at the roots of his hair and Lance’s vision goes a little blurry as he moans, a little too loudly—_ )

Allura smiles, a little smug, a lot sharp. “Usually, you know, Lance—you get very possessive.”

Oh, her voice is breathy, _raspy_ , still heavy with a slight stammer—Lance grips at the desk with both his hands, trying to inhale wretched oxygen as Allura leans _forward_ , a pleasant weight between his thighs. “You usually leave hickies, anywhere and everywhere. On my thighs, which are easy enough to hide…But then my jaw, my neck, the insides of my knees, the insides of my _elbows—_ ” Allura’s eyes narrow, and she grips at his left hip _hard_ , hard enough to make Lance gasp, make him jerk his head back. “Which _hurt_ , you know! And they're so hard to hide.”

“I just—” Lance licks at his dry lips, looking Allura directly in the eye as he tries to figure out just _how_ she managed to wrap her pretty fingers so tight around his messy heart. More than that, he's trying to figure out how to get her to loosen that _death grip_. But under Allura’s unending stare, Lance can only shiver and shamefully dart his eyes to the floor. “I just wanted to make you feel good,” Lance whispers.

“Hmm?” Allura gently lifts his chin, presses a thumb against his kiss-chapped lips. Lance inhales sharply. “No, Lance! You didn't leave any marks this time, you didn't leave me any embarrassing situations to explain to the other partners and the associates—you were a _good boy_ , today, Lance.”

He really, _really_ can't suppress his squeak.

 _Fuck_ , his chest is heaving again. Lance quietly says, “Thank you.”

“And good boys deserve rewards, don’t they?” Allura says, batting her eyelashes, gently pressing the sharp edge of a blue-painted fingernail into his jaw. “I’ll meet you at our usual place today, at 10pm. Can you be patient, Lance?”

“I can be patient, I promise,” Lance says, digging his nails into the desk, hard enough to hurt, enough to make a shiver rise up in his shoulders. Gives her a smile, sweet as he can make it, despite the ache in his throat, despite the sting of painted fingernails clawing down his spine. Despite the hunger lurking in the recess of his stomach. “Thank you, Princess.”

Allura blinks at the nickname, before she ducks her head. Her lips spread into a shy grin, exposing her own shimmering, glimmering, pink-smeared teeth. A candy-store-heist, sleazy-sweets-sales-kid kind of grin.

Lance does the same, sweet and sticky across his own mouth, and he finally unhooks his ankles.

✿

**2\. atmospheric interference**

They still have to get through the rest of their workday.

Lance still has to keep himself from thumbing at the bruises Allura left on his hip, the scratches across his stomach, the bitemarks on his shoulders. Still has to restrain the _humming_ in his skin, he still has to lock up all that messy _want_ inside his bones.

Lance still has to smile politely at visitors with a prim, “ _Ms. Al-Talah isn't available right now, I’ll take an appointment,_ ” which can be _exhausting_ , and he still needs to file and set up appointments on the phone and sometimes research information for Allura, which is _way_ more fulfilling. And he's still— _calm_. A calm, light feeling blossoming in his chest like apple flowers in the summer.

Makes it easier to handle Keith jamming the coffee machine _again_.

Keith—Keith jams all the machines, really, the coffee machine and copy machine and fax machine and the _refrigerator—_ but he never gets into shit for it, which, uh, _unfair_ —but at least Shiro always manages to fix the broken thing up.

And— _Shiro_ —alright, yeah, okay, real talk: Shiro is an _absolute angel_ , and he’s an absolute _lifesaver_.

He’s this associate, he’s only been working in the firm for a few months, older than the other first-year associates ‘cause he went to law school a lot later, after his honorable discharge. Takashi Shirogane, _just Shiro is fine_ , big-tall-strong man with carbon-gray eyes and a smile like a goddamn _puppy_.

He’s bright, and idealistic in a way most people aren't—the type of optimism that manifests in bruised-knee kids with band-aids all over their faces, shiny grins and hands cut and calloused from gripping tree branches to climb _high, high, high_ as possible. A rough raw positivity that honestly just—

Well. It brightens _Lance_ up, too.

And Lance—listen, he tries to be bright, tries to be smiley and joking and happy so Allura can relax so Keith can relax so everyone can take a fucking _break_ and fucking _breathe_ , and Shiro—

Shiro lets _Lance_ breathe.

Authoritative, but sweetly so. Demands attention—well, more like _requests_ , humbly, substantially, and people will _beg_ to give it. Smart-strong-stellar with dark-sky eyes like the night untainted by light pollution.

And this city Lance lives in, oh, the light pollution is so bad that he hasn’t seen the true sky in _forever_. And Shiro—he’s like an atmospheric glance into a better world, optimistic, beautiful, where stars are visible and skyglow isn’t _suffocating_.

So Lance, with Allura’s bruises heavy on his hips still, brightened up, high on that choking flower-perfume—well. He leans closer to Shiro, smiles brighter, bats his eyelashes faster.

Watches the way Allura does the same. With those long eyelashes and cute, cute, _cute_ glossy mouth upturned in that awkward, genuine smile of hers, the one she gets with new people.

Allura and Shiro—could be good together. Lance can tell, and he’s the best goddamn legal secretary this town’s seen, okay? He _knows_. Knows his possibilities, unknowns, predictions, developments—he knows, okay? Knows what could happen in a flash of a moment, whenever Allura gets bored with him—

No, wait. That’s not the right way to say it—that makes her seem callous, flighty, when she’s _not_ —she’s beautiful and caring and (—and maybe Lance places her too highly in the skyscraper levels of his mind, thinks _too highly of her_ , maybe he’s about to get his heart broken but—) she’s lovely, she’s lovely, and Shiro is lovely too.

But Lance knows. He knows by the flush in Shiro’s cheeks, the flustered way he speaks sometimes, the way his primrose pink mouth flutters open and shut and that pretty, endearing nervous laugh, his gentle support and strength.

Shiro and Allura would be _good_ together. Good enough to run an army, build an empire, topple buildings and _shake_ this Earth.

So Lance watches, the way Allura makes eyes and flustered smiles and how Shiro responds positively, and when Allura leans over Lance’s desk to quietly ask, “ _Should we ask him to join us, sometimes?_ ”

Well—

Maybe it’ll end badly for Lance, but he’s _enraptured, encaptured, electrified_ by all these particles colliding in the office atmosphere.

So he gives Shiro another lookover (he’s too innocent, he _looks_ too innocent, too fumbly and bright for offhanded office tricks and getting fucked in a storage closet—) and he gives Allura a calm smile, and Lance says—

 _Yes, of course_.

Anything for his princess.

(Because, if Lance is honest—

—he _likes_ getting fucked up.)

✿

**Author's Note:**

>  _next chapter_ ; sea salt caramel, EM radiation, and a shared shiro kink.


End file.
